


Birds of a Feather

by solarbishop



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Male!Hawke - Freeform, Sexual Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarbishop/pseuds/solarbishop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris cannot fathom why Hawke continuously disrespects his master.<br/>Hawke cannot understand why Fenris does not fight for his freedom.</p><p>(AU in which Hawke and family are sold into slavery to Danarius.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Standing among the other slaves behind his master, Fenris thinks nothing of the rowdy individuals forced to kneel onto the jagged gravel of the courtyard by those brutish slavers. Rather, the sense of danger automatically attunes his eyes to the details of the three slaves, two men and an old woman. The two men are bulky and appear strong, tall, even, if they could stand. Their faces are similar, and thus Fenris assumes that they may be brothers. The possibility that this old woman is their mother is likely, despite how Fenris cannot see her face because her eyes are averted to the ground to sob. Thick, strong rope binds their hands behind their backs and they are immobile, but Fenris particularly dislikes the malicious glare piercing at his master from the man with the scruffy beard.

The leader of the slavers coughs, speaking with a gruff voice that has inhaled too much smoke from ceramic pipes, “One hundred sovereigns a head, as agreed with our agency.”

Danarius, however, is not impressed. “You expect to satisfy me with slaves clearly lacking in their manners?” His eyes roll to the old woman, and he snaps. “Silence!”

The old woman bites her lip to hold her cries.

“This is a pitiful commission.” Danarius sneers.

“The agency smuggled them from Kirkwall, not too far south of Tevinter,” the slaver says lamely.

“I am aware of the location of Kirkwall. Mind your tongue.”

“Forgive me, magister. The agency I represent intercepted this lot during their travels to Kirkwall from Lothering to visit their uncle, whose name is . . . Bah, who cares—smuggling three bodies isn’t cheap. The agreement remains at our compromised price, will you pay or not?" The slaver, growing impatient and wincing, attempts to assuage the concerns of a valued customer. "Lothering men are strong and will be able to endure any physical work . . . once they are properly trained. I’ll admit their attitudes are not ideal, this lot, but any proper master is quick to punish disobedience. And, well, this hag can spend the rest of her days cleaning your estate—why, she is already bowed over in her desire to serve you!"

The man to the left snaps and jerks around, but a swift, blunt attack to his head pacified him. The man with the beard, too, jerks harshly, receiving the same treatment while maintaining such a great spark of rage in his eyes. The slaver and his men shift uneasily. "A hundred sovereigns a head," he restates.

The magister scoffs. "This expense should not exceed more than forty sovereigns for these meager dogs, not to mention the demanding task of reeducating these... Ferelden mongrels."

" _Forty_?" He grits his yellow teeth. He breathes deeply to calm down, shaking his head. “They will slit my throat if I returned with less than—”

“Fenris,” interrupts Danarius, “present yourself.”

Fenris follows the commands of his master without question by stepping aside as a demonstration, and his eyes avert to the ground.

“On your knees, Fenris.”

Fenris drops his greatsword to the ground as his knees meet the gravel, compliant. He could feel the eyes of everyone present piercing into him, and he decidedly dislikes it. The jagged gravel beneath his knees is substantially painful to kneel upon, and he refrains from shifting to lessen his distress; Fenris is very aware of how much Danarius dislikes squirming. However, the wishes of his master are far more important than his personal comfort.

“ _This_ is the perfect slave and bodyguard.” Danarius reaches a bony hand to stroke the soft, snow-white hair of his pet, regarding him fondly. “He is complaisant and never succumbs to any bitter emotions that would jeopardize my desires, never questions his place in the world for I am his world, and he will prioritize my safety and obey any task, no matter the difficulty. Not to mention he is beautiful and deadly, especially with his markings—embedded lyrium. Although, his eyes are rather large, but that is to be expected of an elf . . . Notice how my pet leans into my hand, enjoying my affection. He loves this. Speak, Fenris. Does my touch please you?”

“I love your touch, master.”

“Do you wish for more?”

“Please, master.”

Danarius gentle touch morphs into a brutal tugging of hair. “Do not be so obscene, Fenris.” Danarius releases his hair to place a firm slap against his head, receiving only a grunt from his slave. The magister returns his attention to the slaver. “. . . And he receives his punishments gracefully.”

Fenris could only feel guilt for embarrassing his master. “Thank you, master. Please forgive me.”

“Stand. You are forgiven.”

Fenris shifts onto his feet, retrieving his greatsword from the ground. He removes himself to his place behind Danarius, grateful to master for allowing his knees to be lifted from the gravel.

The icy glare of the magister bares weight onto the slaver as he continues. “This is not the first time your agency has provided inadequate property; be thankful that I still allow you here to renegotiate the price of three slaves.”

The slaver glances nervously to his men, obviously intimidated by the display of the master’s pet, and he wrings his hands together. “My superiors will not be pleased . . . Alright, alright. Perhaps the price can undergo negotiation once more. Seventy sovereigns a head.”

“Fifty.”

“Sixty.”

“Fifty.”

The slaver hesitates. “Fifty-five sovereigns a head.”

The eyes of the magister narrow before he relents. “The price is far more tolerable than the original compromise. I see that you are desperate but my generosity can only extend so far. Inform your superiors that I will no longer be using their services and seek commission elsewhere.” The magister exchanges coin to the slaver as if he was purchasing land, and the slavers promptly scurry from the infamous blood mage’s courtyard. Danarius sneers at the mongrel before his feet, and, without bothering to ask for their names, the magister moves toward his estate, ordering Fenris to follow him.

The following command Danarius issues to the rest of his slaves sends a small twinge of pity to settle in Fenris’s chest, the same feeling he experiences whenever new property goes to Hadriana for lessons in good behavior.


	2. Hunger

Hawke breathes sharply, inhaling and exhaling rapidly, to edge off the pain of the brand that was previously pressed against the skin of his left shoulder blade. The agony of the red, searing metal compared very little to screams of his mother and his brother, Carver, when they received their brands, and the stray tears that dripped and dried on his cheeks conveyed his momentary despair. The only thought that preoccupies his mind through the burn is an intense desire to slaughter Hadriana after she pleads for his life. After the screams of Hadriana ring in Hawke’s ears, he will slit her throat so that her poisonous tongue could never harm another soul. He does not know how he will accomplish this, but when he manages, he will think of his poor mother and brother.

That bastard Danarius will be next.

After the branding, Hadriana was finished with the Fereldens and had the guard rather than the slaves transport the family to their private cell blocks beneath the estate, which was devoid of sunlight. Instead, torches lit the way and the stale stench of a vague sickness tainted the air, and Carver swallowed hard, growing ill at the beastly living conditions. Leandra, the proud mother of her boys, failed to accept the true reality of their situation and attempted to fight the guards every step of the way. Hawke, although heartbroken at the sight of his mother, was proud of her. Now, Hawke sits alone within his private cell block, and he dares not sit against the dirty wall in fear of infecting the brand.

The cell block is small and only suitable for housing one person, if you could call it housing. There is no furniture, and torchlight shines through the barred window of the locked cell door. At the base of the door is a small opening that is large enough only for food and drink to be delivered. The floor is covered in straw, a single, thin, and tattered blanket is crumpled up onto the straw, and to the very corner is a bucket upon which to perform basic biological function. Hawke pales at the lack of sanitation, and he is left alone with his thoughts. In the distance, he can hear the muffled sounds of sobbing that does not come from either Carver or his mother, and it must be coming from another slave. He cannot hear his family, and he wonders what will happen of Bethany, who remained at Lothering to watch over the home, and his precious mabari, Butch.

Contempt fuels Hawke into thinking of inane plans to escape with his family, but he is too exhausted to figure anything useful or clever. Without a proper staff, he is unable to perform magic effectively, and who knows what could happen should someone of this horrid estate discovers his talents as a mage. Hawke can imagine that Carver is planning something stupid that could never work, trying as best as he can, but he cannot think too much about Carver because his screams still echo in his ears. The pain and the permanency of those brands will haunt Hawke and his family forever.

A sudden shock of remembrance bursts through Hawke, and he blanches upon the memory of an old, bony hand running through the locks of white hair, the intimate words, and the unquestioning obedience of the elven slave. The mistreatment of . . . Hawke stumbles to remember the name of that slave; the name is on the tip of his tongue. Hawke pauses. Fenris. His name is Fenris. His mistreatment forces Hawke to wonder if those deep words Fenris spoke rung true or if they were lies. Regardless, those expressions on the magister’s face directed toward the slave unsettled Hawke to his core, and he prays to the Maker in hopes that it is not as vile as he believes. The mage feels an overwhelming sense of pity for the elf and anger for his wellbeing.

Hawke shifts to lie on his right side atop of his only blanket, and his eyes slowly close. He valiantly attempts to dispel the scent of his cell block but it is in vain, and he does not think the putrid odor will ever settle with him. His aching muscles are sore from such an extended journey far beyond Kirkwall and the brand upon his shoulder blade burns and stings. His best course of action, the only course of action, is to drift and sleep with the vague, comforting notion of never waking. The final vision in his mind before a fitful slumber claims him is a pair of  large, green eyes.

* * *

 

“Pet,” speaks Danarius through a mouthful of Tevinter cheeses before swallowing. “Open your mouth.”

Fenris complies to receive a small slice of cheese from his master, and he kisses his fingers gratefully. His master truly cherishes him. Fenris is sitting on the ornate carpeted floor at his master’s feet, quiet and hungry. Hadriana, of course, found time in her schedule to deny Fenris his meal for the day, but Danarius is generous to never starve his slave. Yet, Fenris always finds himself hungry, and guilt would plague his heart should he ask for more food from his master. He could never ask for more than what his master graciously allows, for his master already bestows upon his slave so much. Fenris learns to cherish what he has, and what Fenris has is Danarius.

“Good, good.” Fenris’s chest swells from the praise.

Danarius idly continues feeding his slave from his own plate as he reads an old tome detailing the old histories of magic, and each time Fenris feels fingers press against his lips, he kisses and licks his fingers clean. The process is intimate and so heavy with meaning for the slave, and Fenris is so honored and hungry.

Suddenly, Danarius closes his book with a sigh and shifts in his seat, locking the door with his magic, and Fenris, attuned to the needs of his master, crawls on his hands and knees to settle between the legs of the magister. As Fenris maneuvers through the robes, hands settling on his outer thighs, Danarius reaches to grasp a handful of white hair and groans as his pet performs the duties expected of such a beautiful sex slave. The high of control is exquisite, and Fenris is so willing to be controlled.

“Mind your teeth, pet.”

* * *

 

Several days passed before the guards allowed Hawke to leave his cell block to perform his duties as a slave. Although, his permittance was not based upon good behavior but on his compliance due to his need to eat, as Hawke could only endure for so long on small morsels of bread and water and pitiful leftovers. From his initial understanding, his physique predetermined his work as a caretaker of the extensive gardens of Danarius’s regal estate. Hawke never saw his mother or Carver on his first day of work, which inflamed the mage with an unspoken anxiety that he burned through by hard labor beneath the sweltering sun. He planted flowers and trees, trimmed the bushes into lively shapes, carried hefty sacks of decorative gravel, and began a project to dig a large hole in the earth for a pond.

The rigorous tasks demanded his full effort, for there were slave overseers equipped with whips who watched the slaves and assumed an executive position as enforcers of Danarius’s fanciful tastes. Hawke saw two slaves that morning subjugated and whipped, and he could not tell whether or not those slaves refused to work or stopped due to exhaustion. Those angry lashes would leave blisters and permanent scars, but the overseers were careful not to mark over the brand. The slaves were forced to work through the pain. Hawke had contemplated on slacking on his duties in a cheap attempt for food before he witness the brutalization against those elven slaves. The display possessed the intended effect of motivating Hawke to work harder and to pray for the safety of his family. Needless to say, a single day only allocates so much time, so Hawke did not come close to finishing his work.

Upon his escorted return to his cell block, he silently sat in the middle of the straw bedding and atop of his tattered blanket, staring at the hole at the base of the door, waiting for food and drink. Eventually, a small platter and a cup of water arrived through the hole, and Hawke immediately attacked it to satiate his starvation. He tore into the meat, the produce, and the cheeses as if he was a wild animal, and he devoured it with such an intensity that choking became a very real fear. He forced himself to eat at a reasonable pace, and stale food had never tasted so delicious and magnificent before. He drank water to chase away his thirst.

After he finished his small meal, Hawke nearly wept for he then realized how his own desperation affected his attitudes and morals. His loving mother would have been ashamed of him, and Carver would further resent him. He lied on the ground with great grief and guilt upon his shoulders, heavier than the stones he carried throughout the garden. His hatred for Danarius grew tenfold, and, again, his mind wandered to the poor green-eyed elf as he fell asleep.

On that night, Hawke was plagued by haunting dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should also clarify that this takes place before Fenris goes with the Fog Warriors, yeah?  
> The same could be said that the Blight has yet to occur in Lothering and no darkspawn has found occupancy, too. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm very grateful for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks! Thank you, I am glad you've decided to follow the story of Hawke and Fenris and their respective struggles. Hopefully, we should pick up some pace between these two, along with meeting characters that have yet to be discussed.


	3. Eyes

_To my niece, Bethany Hawke,_

 

_A considerable amount of time has come to pass with no sight or word from your mother, my sister, Leandra. The last letter I got from her wrote that she would be visiting the estate in Kirkwall, along with Garrett and Carver, due to a sudden desire to finally pay her respects to mother and father, and that was weeks ago. But Leandra also wrote that you didn’t fancy the trip, and you preferred to stay behind. Must have been the templars, right? I must say that I don’t blame you. I would have preferred for your family to stay away from me in Lothering altogether, for a few reasons._

_I imagine that must sound harsh, but take it in stride. Despite some past disagreements between your mother and me, I’m worried about my sister, and her children, by extension. I doubt that she canceled, otherwise she would have written another letter. Are Leandra and the boys still home? If not, then I fear the worst, and you are the last person capable of providing any reassurance._

_Please do write back as soon as you get this letter._

 

_Gamlen Amell_

* * *

In his cell block, Hawke reads the dirty parchment he acquired through a clandestine messaging network known amongst slaves fortunate enough to be versed in the written word, and Leandra’s handwriting provides the relief he needs to know that his family are still alive. Leandra notes that she even had a chance to speak to Carver before he departed to work in the nearby mountains to harvest lyrium with the overseers and other slaves. The tone in Leandra’s writing suggests how horrific and resentful of the danger Carver must face near raw lyrium for such prolonged periods of time.

As for Leandra herself, she mentions how her own labor is nowhere near as dangerous, writing that she helps to keep the estate clean and that the work is never ends. She writes her worries for Carver’s mind, and she writes of how greatly she misses Bethany but so thankful of how she chose to remain home in Lothering. She briefly mentions how her brother must be worried sick, despite their past history. Leandra, on her final sentence, tells Hawke that he will manage a way to free their misfortunate family and that she loves him with all of her heart.

Hawke debates on whether or not to keep the parchment, as the message ignites a new hope within his soul. Yet, Hawke does not know where to hide the parchment for he would be in immense trouble should the guard find the message in his cell. The lives of the slaves who know of the network would be on his hands, including his mother and Carver, and he would be their executioner. The network is a bond of trust that cannot be broken, a bond that cannot be divulged through torture, a bond that cannot be revealed through bribery that even promises freedom.

The mere act of shredding the parchment into little pieces into the bucket located in the corner of the cell block is enough to break Hawke’s heart, but no one should be harmed for his sake.

Hawke jumps at the sound of heavy footsteps echoing throughout the corridor, and he is quick to lie on the ground and pretend to sleep. The sounds of the guard dragging a slave through the corridor to deposit their body into a cell block is not new, but Hawke hears not a word from the slave. His brows furrow in conflict at the thought of the guard possibly carrying a dead slave, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it came. The guard are so close, and it surprises Hawke when he hears the whine of a neighboring metal door open beside his own cell to the left. Hawke hears a faint grunt as a body topples onto the floor after being pushed by the guard, and the guard shut, lock the door, and leave, footsteps following their night patrol.

Overwhelmingly curious, Hawke crawls to the cold brick wall and leans against the structure. Once he is certain the guards are not around, Hawke, for the very first time, whispers, with enough volume to be audible, “Are you alright?”

Minutes that feel longer than minutes pass before he hears a response, “Leave me alone.”

Hawke jolts as he recognizes that voice. Immediately, Hawke’s eyes scan the brick wall in disbelief. “Is that . . . Fenris?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“My name is Hawke. I work in the garden.”

“ . . . Forgive me, but I do not know you.”

Hawke’s hands search along the brick wall in attempt to find a weak spot, feeling along the cold stone. The mage laughs dryly, a noise unpracticed nowadays, “I don’t exactly expect you to remember me, but I remember you.”

Hawke could hear the hesitation in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“I first saw you a few weeks ago—my family and I were sold to your master—”

“He is _your_ master, too.” Fenris says, terse.

Hawke scoffs. “Danarius may own me, but he will never be my master.” Hawke’s hands find purchase on a loose brick, and he begins to tug on it with all of the strength in his fingers. His fingers bloom white from the pressure he places onto the brick.

“That does not make any sense. He is your master as he is mine. A master is someone who owns you.”

“It makes sense. You must not understand it from my perspective.” Hawke grunts as he manages to remove the brick from the wall, drawing an accusatory reaction from the neighboring elf.

“Fool, what do you think you are doing?” Fenris snaps.

Hawke peeps into the hole he created, seeing the elf in close proximity for the first time in weeks. Fenris appears no different than the day Hawke saw him, with the exception of his armor for instead he wears simple clothing made of cotton. He could see the faint swirls of lyrium beneath his clothing, over his arms, ribs, stomach, and further. Hawke glances around his cell block, too, and it is no different from his own, but, with a hint of jealousy, he notes that Fenris has a spare blanket. “Why, I have questions.”

“I want to be alone.” Yet, Fenris could not force himself to avert his eyes from the distraction either. He stares. “ . . . I remember those eyes. You were the bearded man who gave Master Danarius such a disrespectful glare. If you attempt to act upon any of your treacherous thoughts, I will kill you myself.”

“How vicious,” he says sarcastically, yet rather unsettled by his loyalty to Danarius. Perhaps talking to this elf is not the best idea afterall. “In the several weeks that I have rotted away here, I have never heard you come to your cell block until tonight. Why?”

An expression of guilt marrs the elf’s pretty features, and his eyes are hauntingly sad. The elf brings his knees to his chest and glances away from Hawke, shoulders slumping forward as he rests his head against his knees. His shoulders and general posture overall seem stressed. Hawke regrets to prod the matter entirely, cursing under his breath as that twinge of guilt invades his heart. His own loneliness through the horrid weeks pressured him too hastily to seek a friend.

“I am sorry,” the mage offers. “Perhaps that was too forward of me.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Perhaps I could listen to your troubles?—only if you want to share, of course.” Hawke scratches his beard in thought.

“I don’t think I want to,” he mumbles

“Whatever you want.” Hawke sighs, vaguely disappointed. “But you _are_ okay, right?”

“No, I am not okay!” He snaps again. “I displeased Master Danarius, and this is my punishment! I can only hope that he will forgive me! I can’t believe I . . . ”

“You . . . what?”

Fenris’s features soften. “I looked into his eyes after I finished . . . performing. Master Danarius does not like my eyes; he thinks my eyes are too large. I deserve this punishment. He already does so much for me while I continue to be a disappointment. I have overstepped my boundaries. Instead of sleeping at the foot of my master’s bed, tonight I sleep here, cold and alone, to repay my transgression.”

Hawke dares not to ask Fenris what “performing” means, assuming the worst. Instead, his brows furrow as he blatantly stares at Fenris, unable to understand what is wrong. “That is ridiculous.”

“It is not! I am a slave, I am not supposed to look into my master’s eyes.”

“Your eyes aren’t even _that_ large.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“Well, _I_ think your eyes are pretty.”

Fenris stares, incredulous and disbelieving.

“Pretty—pretty nice. Your eyes, I mean. Your eyes are pretty nice. Not too large, nor too small. Just right.”

“Who _are_ you?” Fenris scoots closer to the wall.

Hawke and Fenris spend their night learning about one another. Where Hawke learns that Fenris has been a slave with no family of recollection for all of his life, Fenris learns that Hawke was a freeman with a large family of his own. Fenris, curious of the life of a freeman, asks many of his own questions about an existence beyond the estate and beyond his master, a foreign concept in its entirety. Hawke, more than happy to finally have polite conversation with the elf, a friend, answers all of his questions. However, the few bitter jabs that Hawke casts toward Danarius nearly ends all the pleasantries between Fenris and himself, so Hawke tailors his words to suit the hour.

“Why do you even _want_ it?” Fenris crinkles his nose. “Freedom seems to be such a terrible burden, yet you seek it.”

“Why would you want to remain a slave?”

Fenris is slow to respond. “Being a slave provides certainty once you understand your master. Know the desires and needs of your master, and life is not so bad.”

“Unless Hadriana has eyes on you.”

“Yes,” he says with the faintest of chuckles before his face morphs into a frown. “She is rather terrible, isn’t she?”

“You don’t need to tell me; I have a permanent reminder as a testament to how awful she is.” Hawke grimaces at the memory of his family, one by one, receiving the brand of Danarius. His eyes gleam with a certain, faraway distance.

“ . . . Hawke?” The elf asks, pursing his lips.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Sorry. Anyway, as a slave, you don’t have a voice. You aren’t allowed to do anything. I’m forced to work every day outside beneath the brutal sun with no water to chase away the thirst I feel. I would rather the endure uncertainty of freedom rather than being robbed of my free will, any day. My family would certainly agree with me.” Hawke’s eyes flicker to Fenris. “I think you should, too.”

Fenris is slow to shake his head, and Hawke could see the elf struggling with his perspective. “I think we should sleep.”

“Yes. You’re right.” Hawke scratches his unkempt beard before yawning. “I ache for more sleep. Who knows what time it is?” Hawke reaches for the nearby brick he removed earlier in an attempt to slide the stone back into the wall. With little difficulty, he manages. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

“Sleep well,” is the response, muffled by the wall separating them.


	4. Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but that's okay. The next one will be longer.
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments are much appreciated!

Danarius commands Fenris to don his best dress clothes, fabric consisting of scarlet silks lined with golden embroidery designed for Fenris to appear most desirable and lustful, for the evening soirée. A week has come to pass since the elf committed that heinous transgression, and, after several more grueling punishments and threats, Danarius finds within his benevolent mood to allow his pet to attend. Fenris, ever eager to improve upon himself, complies with the utmost grace, dressing lavishly in his gifts and exploiting his body for all to witness.

“Tonight is important,” says Danarius, unable to abstain from his concubine’s delicious body. He holds Fenris firm against his naked chest by the waist, and the magister nuzzles his face against his sensitive nape and breathes against his skin. His fingers idly trace along the visible lyrium lines along his body. “You are to present yourself in a pleasing manner in behalf of our esteemed guests, but you are to touch no one but your master. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master.” Fenris struggles not to squirm.

“Excellent.” Danarius reluctantly releases his elf before gesturing toward his wardrobe, and Fenris selects the robe Danarius exclusively wears to parties. The concubine wordlessly aids Danarius in dressing his master, as is the natural habit. “Fellow Imperial magisters, such as myself, are expected to attend, and I am their host. Everything must go according to plan; everything must be perfect.

“And where would I be without my food taster? In a tomb, I am certain.” The magister grins as he catches Fenris’s chin between his bony fingers, stroking his lyrium lines with a thumb, staring at his beauty. Immediately Fenris averts his eyes, biting his lip due to nervousness. The magister slaps his cheek. “I am pleased to see that you have learned from your past mistakes.”

His cheek stings. “Thank you, master.”

Danarius releases him. “Go to Hadriana at once. Inform her that her slave—Orana, is it?—will be providing musical entertainment. Her skills at playing the lute is quite wondrous to the ear.”

Fenris stiffens at Hadriana's name before nodding, hesitantly, yet he attempts to delay the inevitable. “Please allow me to finish dressing you, master.”

“I am no child, Fenris. I can dress myself.” The magister regards his slave with cold eyes that Fenris could feel penetrating him. “Do not allow me to experience the pain of punishing you again.”

Fenris abandons his master’s side, stammering. “Y-Yes. Forgive me, master, please do not suffer because of me. I will go to Hadriana at once.” Fenris bows his head in reverence to his master and leaves Danarius’s chamber without another word.

* * *

The pleasure of bathing, despite the terribly cold water, is magnificent and thoroughly appreciated. Hawke feels as if the water has liberated his body and soul of dirt and odors most foul, all in the name of preparation for a party. While the promising word of slaves serving several magisters gathering together in one location does nothing to ease his nerves, Hawke is certain that he will see Carver, who recently returned from the lyrium mines some days ago. Knowing that Carver will attend the soirée regardless of his exposure to raw lyrium fills Hawke with relief for the man must be physically and mentally sound.

The soirée will be in the garden, showcasing the arduous labor of the overseers and the slaves, including Hawke himself. There, the beautiful Tevinter wild roses and the pond dressed in lilypads, home to pretty fish, are overflowing with breathing life and tremendous color. Hawke is almost proud of the work he accomplished with his fellow slaves, but he banishes the feeling because that is how Danarius wants a slave to feel. He  _ wants _ slaves such as Hawke to feel complaisant and pleased by bestowing purpose and reward, a clever guise of slavery that Hawke will never purchase as a once-freeman.

Overseers pass acceptable clothing to the slaves, brethren and underlings alike, and Hawke snatches the shirt and the trousers with little more thought. Thinking about Danarius boils his blood into a rage, and bloody fantasies can only assuage his mood so much. Hawke frowns to himself as he pulls the shirt over his head. His silent ponderance alone in his cell block has led to less than fruitful plans of escape, and, Maker, he hopes that his family has not given up on him. Hawke cannot figure a feasible plan where they can escape when his family is never in one place, for Carver is always mining in the mountains and his mother is always cleaning the estate. Not to mention the guards that lurk about in every corner.

But Hawke is not yet depleted of clever ideas, so he must observe what this soirée will bring. Perhaps something actually useful will come out tonight.

* * *

Fenris inhales as he musters the courage to approach and knock upon Hadriana’s chamber door. He could hear the faint plucking of a lute inside and the soft song of a story, which suddenly stops, interrupted by Fenris’s gentle knocks. He purses his lips when the shrill voice of Hadriana demands the entry of the individual who dares to interrupt Orana.

The concubine enters her chamber with eyes averted to the ground. To be seen by her in this attire is terribly embarrassing, and he struggles to keep composure. “Master Danarius wished me to inform the Lady Hadriana that Orana shall be playing the lute in the gardens this evening.”

Hadriana hums as she finishes prettying her face with makeup, watching Fenris through the reflection in the mirror. Hadriana notices the elf casting brief glances toward Orana, her own slave, yet it is Fenris’s outfit that catches her interest. She smirks at his appearance. “As the magister pleases.”

Fenris hastily turns on his heel to exit the chamber. “Good day, my Lady.”

“Stay where you are.” Hadriana hisses, compelling the slave to obey.

Fenris winces but remains in place. He twists around to face her. “Yes, my Lady?”

“You look like a harlot,” she says plainly.

“I believe that is the point,” Fenris states dryly.

Hadriana quirks a brow at this attitude, grimacing. The apprentice magister darts her eyes around the room, as if searching for an idea for punishment. However, when Hadriana notices how Fenris’s eyes widen in surprise at himself, she decides to let him off easily. Today is a night for festivities, after all.

But she cannot excuse that behavior.

Hadriana motions to the stool before her mirror and dresser, a place supporting all her accessories. “Sit, Fenris.”

Fenris is silent as he walks to the stool, sitting down. Hadriana snatches Fenris’s chin, forcing him to stare at himself in the mirror. “Fenris, I would love to practice putting makeup on you. You are going to look just  _ delectable _ in front of all the other little magisters and their guests. Hah, I would imagine that Danarius would even thank me! You will help me, won’t you?”

“ . . . Yes, my Lady.” Fenris could feel the tips of his ears burn, and his hopes for maintaining composure is gone.

“Wonderful. Now, stay still.”

Orana, hesitant due to the exchange between her master and a fellow slave, continues to play her lute, safe in the corner where she draws no further attention.


	5. The Soirée, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you for the comments, the kudos, and the bookmarks! It makes me very happy that so many of you enjoy my story. And over 600 hits! That's super awesome, thank you! I hope to receive more comments, kudos, bookmarks, and hits in the future. c:
> 
> Please, enjoy this chapter, titled: The Soirée, Part I.

The soirée is absolutely grand and extravagant, with soft floating lights and a variety of expensive alcohol suited only for those with fine tastes, and all the magisters and their guests are enjoying themselves to feast and the festivities. Danarius would describe this evening as a great success as not only are his associates delighting in the convivial atmosphere, but silently fretting at the intimidating supply of power at the magister’s disposal. Politics, politics, it is all merely a matter of politics, he muses as his bony finger traces the rim of the wine glass.

From the corner of his eye, Danarius sees his elven beauty from afar, who sheepishly attempts to maneuver through the crowd to his master. How enchanting it is to observe Fenris’s rightful position in life as nothing more than a toy,  _ his  _ toy. Danarius watches the sinful elf with hungry, burning eyes, and he shifts in his luxurious and comfortable seat. He notes with satisfaction that the other magisters also gaze upon the elf with nothing short of interest and lust. He cannot help but chuckle at Fenris for weaving through the crowd without touching a single soul must be difficult, but he is glad to know that his concubine is so thoroughly dedicated to his wishes.

However, Fenris manages to bump into a tall, broad man, one of his own slaves, and the pretty elf reverses in step, bowing his head. Yet the other slave laughs, pays no mind to the inconvenience, and even approaches the elf with utmost respect as he scratches his beard with a free hand. His eyes narrow, latching onto the man with distaste.

* * *

“Fenris!” Hawke blurts as the elf solidly walks into him, and for a brief moment he feels an indescribable happiness. But then a twinge of disappointment pangs his heart when the elf recoils from him, bowing his head as if Hawke is no more than a stranger. “Hello, Fenris,” he laughs, sparing himself from sadness because his only friend in the entire estate is standing right before him.

“Hawke.” Fenris states in acknowledgment, shoulders rigid and tense. He keeps his face hidden from sight.

The mage fails to understand his behavior until he truly sees the elf before him, dressed in beautiful scarlet silks with golden embroidery woven into the cloth, complete with a thin hood. His clothes compliment his figure and frame, his sweet skin and tattoos, filling Hawke with a deep desire to see those big, green eyes. Hawke could not help but stare, a dumb expression striking his face, mouth slightly agape. Yet, Hawke notices embarrassment and disdain radiating from his slight frame and no longer allows those carnal urges to consume him. 

Hawke glances around Fenris instead, and he realizes that a few magisters are watching Fenris with an idle lust. He feels guilty. He wipes that dumb expression from his face, shaking his head with a cough to gather the attention of that elf. He straightens and maintains the distance that separates them. “So, how goes?” he asks, voicing the vague awkwardness between them.

“I need to go.” Fenris keeps his head low, attempting to step aside Hawke.

In a moment of panic, Hawke intercepts Fenris by wrapping an arm around his shoulders, guiding the elf away from prying eyes to the trimmed decorative bushes of the Tevinter wild roses. “The weather is lovely, isn’t it?” He presses, laughing at everything and nothing. Hawke will hide Fenris from everyone behind the tall plants and shrubs and it will be just dandy. He tries to ignore the smoothness of his dark skin.

Fenris bites back a snarky remark, and he only grows more tense once he realizes that he is disobeying Danarius’s order due to the careless actions of this beast. “How dare you!”

“Uh—”

Fenris elbows Hawke against his ribs, although he conserves his strength whereas he would have brought a mortal harm onto the man. As Hawke is wheezing for air, Fenris removes himself from the arm around his shoulder and trips him. Fenris musters a tough glare with furrowed brow and clenched fists and teeth, standing tall over the slave with the all the danger and experience of a fighter. Hawke tumbles to the grass beside the wild flowers, pathetic groans and apologies falling from his mouth. The sounds and words soothe his momentary anger into a whisper, and Fenris, though greatly resentful of his touch, minutely relaxes his expressions. No one ever apologizes to him; it is difficult to understand the expression of an apology without an ulterior motive. This man is kind.

He is also somewhat of an idiot.

His eyes gloss with a cloud of worry when the moment passes and the image of his master appears in his mind. Danarius must have watched the entire scene unfold with insurmountable jealousy and disappointment. The naggings of guilt consume Fenris in its diseased grip for he has failed his master, even if the fault does not belong to him. His eyes flutter open and close, and he tries to breathe evenly to recompose his distorted peace. 

Hawke, able to collect his breath, sluggishly rises from the ground to his elbows. In the lapse of Fenris’s defenses, Hawke manages to catch the sight of the elf’s face.  _ Maker _ , he thinks, absently wondering how one man, an elf, could be so beautiful. He could not help but stare. Gloss shines his lips, shadow highlights his eyes, and something, Hawke is not sure what, pronounces his cheekbones. But the suspicion crawling in his mind suggests to Hawke that Fenris is unwanting of this beauty; this is wrong and it hurts.

Fenris sighs, opening his eyes to see Hawke returning his gaze, confusion and concern swirling about him. The elf glances over his shoulder in a nervous fashion, shifting on his feet. “Hadriana,” he murmurs, gesturing towards his face and answering to the thought that plagues Hawke’s mind. His resolve hardens, his posture straightens, but his deep voice dwindles to a whisper. “I need to go. Perhaps I will see you again, later tonight.”

Images of his dark cell block and Fenris as his miserable neighbor assaults his mind, and Hawke is certain that those words promise nothing good. “Fenris . . .”

* * *

Without another word, Fenris leaves Hawke alone with the Tevinter wild roses with mangled grace in his step. He walks and walks with a heaviness to his form, ignoring all the magisters and guests. The music, played on the lute in the distance by the pretty Orana, falls deaf on his ears. Not too further, he sees Danarius, noticing the subtle body language of anger displayed by his master. As he approaches, he resigns to whatever fate his master deems appropriate for his transgression, as he bows his head, almost as if he is in supplication.

Danarius, though grudging, opens his arms, not so much an invitation but absolute demand, allowing  _ his _ elf to seat upon his lap. Fenris does so. Immediately, the magister snatches his concubine’s chin into his tight grip, examining if that brute damaged his property. But those long lyrium lines distract him. Danarius knows that his precious slave is exceptional in combat and that Fenris can handle himself.. Rather, it is knowing that his hand could glide downwards and crush his windpipe that reassures the magister of his complete dominance over the elf, who would be quietly complaisant.

The blood mage glares at the man who eventually rises from the place behind the bushes with an expression of disgust. For a moment, Danarius almost thinks that the man is returning his glare with a sneer of his own until the man stalks off, mingling with the other slaves serving the magisters. He will suffer punishment.

Later, Danarius will decide that the Tevinter wild roses shall burn to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes and cinder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Definitely been a month since that last chapter. I am surprised that I actually returned to this. At uh, 6am in the morning. Sorry for the long delay, I am not really much of a dedicated and disciplined fanfic writer as others, but here it is! This chapter is split, and the next chapter will still be the whole soirée scene, just with another important character of interest.


	6. The Soirée, Part II

Hawke managed to waste plenty of valuable time with Fenris when he has important issues to accomplish by the end of tonight, but his mind often drifts to the elf. After he disappeared into the crowd and gathered a serving plate of delicacies into his hold, Hawke serves the intrigued magister hungry for a full stomach but does not commit to the task. Rather, he breathes and looks around, for not every day does the overseers allow Hawke to observe the scenery without being shoved into his work or into the dirt. Everywhere there are guards with the eyes of eagles and cold, iron fences that must be enchanted with warding magic with every intention of keeping slaves in captivity.

The more Hawke sees, the great in dismay he becomes. The estate seems impenetrable from the inside, and why would it not be? The estate deals in the slave trade, and its hollow, insidious business writhes as worms in the slimy muck, proliferating and perpetuating. But despite his dismay, Hawke is certain he will figure some inane solution to escape this hellish nightmare with his family.

Maybe Fenris would like to come with him, too.

Hawke shakes his head, choosing to focus upon the warded fences and wishing he tap into the Fade to clear that wretched enchantment instead. With a free hand, he scratches his beard in thought. Doing such magic would require a staff, a conduit of power to channel the Fade. He once attempted to use magic to keep warm within his cell block with only his hands, and he nearly singed his eyebrows. Ineffective, Hawke stayed cold for the night, skin chilled.

Even if he acquisitioned a staff, still the guards remain a problem. The guards walk with purpose, hands always resting on their swords, eyes always expecting rebellion or trouble. Their motivation, Hawke can only guess, is wealth, for what moral person would guard against the slaves? Even the guard would deny an overseer, who, although privileged, is still but an angry slave. Their routes and patrols are a mystery to Hawke, who wastes beneath the sun and rots alone in his cell block.

Then there is his mother, whose cell block is unknown to him, and there is also Carver, too often in the lyrium mines. 

Then there is Fenris. Perhaps.

Hawke, busy in thought, does not notice the light tap of fingers on his shoulder at first, but the succeeding yank of his clothes assumes his attention. The sight of his younger brother, Carver, fills Hawke with a bittersweet happiness.

“Carver,” he sighs, relief in his tone. Hawke’s eyes dart between his brother and the plate of food he is holding, unsure what to do with himself. Then, irritated, his brother drags Hawke aside to an area where no one will hear their conversation whilst maintaining the appearance of serving the magisters. 

“What is the plan?” Carver asks in a disgruntled murmur. There is a constant twitch of his right eye.

“Nice to see you too.” Hawke scoffs, but his eyes glance to stare at his feet. “There is no plan. Not yet.”

“We have been here for weeks and you haven’t thought of anything? Really? We have to get mother out of here, and Bethany thinks that we are off in Kirkwall with our uncle.”

“I know! I know. There are a lot of things to consider, Carver. Besides, why is it that I have to rescue everyone whenever we are in trouble?”

“I can’t go back to the mines,” whispers Carver, a tortured sound. His body twitches, and Carver has this wild, wide-eyed look about him. Hawke wonders whether the overseers reduced Carver to his bare nerves or if the raw lyrium afflicts his mind.

Hawke’s chest wells with sympathy. “How long will you stay here?”

“Two weeks.” Carver cannot seem to properly control the fluctuation of his voice, either. The fluctuation occurs at random intervals during his speech, but he remains quiet enough yet loud enough for only Hawke to here. Carver is different than he was before. “They don’t want to lose their precious slaves . . . but we return when most of the effects of the lyrium are gone. Most of them. Most of them. Most of them.”

“Then we will leave before the two weeks are over, before you go.” Hawke nods in confirmation.

“How? You just said that we didn’t have a plan.” Carver grits his teeth.

“There is one now.” Hawke suggests, glancing at the iron fences. “We will have to escape our cell blocks—you do stay in a cell block, right?”

“Yes, cell block M4.”

“We will escape our cell blocks, and you will take mother to the fence over there and hide in the bushes. Meanwhile, I will manage to steal a staff from that bastard Danarius right under his nose while he is sleeping. I am sure I could probably find some rope on the way. Then, I’ll dispel the ward on the fence, and we can all hop over and run like hell.”

“You’re forgetting about the guards, genius.” Carver sneers.

Hawke grunts, scratching his beard in thought. “Right.”

The brothers fall silent immediately when a couple of magisters approach for pieces of Tevinter delicacies. Once offered, the lady squawks at the taste of the delicacy, and her face twists into that of disgust. The lady spits it out at Hawke, leaving with her fellow magister to the rest of the magisters. Needless to say, Hawke and Carver are not amused.

“Mother would be livid.” Carver comments.

“Yes, she would.” Hawke huffs before an idea pops into mind. “And she would also steal the guards’ patrol details.”

“Yes, she— _ what the hell are you thinking? _ ”

“Mother will steal the patrol details, and she can figure out when and where the patrol would be weakest along the fence.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I don’t see you coming up with any ideas!”

“We are  _ not _ going to put mother in danger like this!”

Hawke appears pained. “Do we have any other options? I don’t like this any more than you do.” Hawke mumbles, almost to himself. “I don’t want to put her in danger, but I also don’t want you to return to the mines. The lyrium will eventually destroy you, Carver. It is too dangerous for you. Look, you haven’t stopped twitching since we started talking.”

Carver could not argue, and he could not stop the traitorous twitch in his eye.

“But if it makes you feel any better, I will write to her.  _ She _ can decide whether or not she will accept the risk.”

Carver eventually relents. “Alright, fine. Let’s say that our elderly mother will steal the details. You know that the rest of this . . .  _ plan _ is insane, right? Absolutely crazy? How are you going to free us from our cell blocks? How are you going to steal Danarius’s staff? What will we do if we get caught?”

“Mother isn’t elderly,” he says, rolling his eyes and avoiding all of his questions.

“Hawke.”

“Don’t worry, Carver. I’ll figure it all out. I think best on my feet.”

**Author's Note:**

> We'll say that Hawke is a mage who can only clumsily cast spells without the aid of a staff for the sake of the story. Also, I wouldn't exactly expect frequent updates if I were you, but perhaps some things will get done every once in awhile.


End file.
